For the last 30 years of his life, my dad drove from Wilmington, Delaware to Atlantic City twice a week to play blackjack. In addition to being a Hall of Fame bridge player and former Manhattan Project scientist, my dad was a skilled card counter. He came out ahead every year, but, in truth, he played for the social interactions, not the money. One night when he was in his early 90s, he was driving home from Atlantic City in a heavy rainstorm, and he was speeding, as was his wont. A policeman stopped him, and my dad helpfully explained to the policeman that because he was speeding he would get home faster, thereby reducing traffic on the road. The policeman laughed and gave him a warning, not a ticket.

My two siblings and I tried (unsuccessfully) to get my dad to stop driving as he neared age 95. He resisted mightily, declaring, “I used to be an excellent driver; now I am a very good driver.” Not exactly. In fact, his bridge-playing friends would no longer be willing to be in the car if he drove. In Delaware, they can’t take away someone’s license unless a doctor states that the person shouldn’t be driving. My dad’s doctor wouldn’t do that (remember how he smooth talked that cop?), so he kept driving until he died of natural causes at age 97. Luckily, he never had an accident.

This acorn didn’t fall too far from that tree. As a brash teenager, I once got our 1956 Pontiac station wagon up to 115 miles an hour with two friends inside. Later, at Bowdoin, I packed five fraternity brothers into a VW Beetle one Thursday night to go to Westbrook Junior College to visit some young ladies. Still later, while living in Maryland, I managed to get three speeding tickets in a single year, thereby earning a seat at a special program for miscreant drivers. Our class resembled the TV show “Welcome Back Kotter,” with a bunch of greasers who would peel out of the parking lot after our “lesson,” a large young woman wearing a sweatshirt inscribed with a racy comment not suitable for a family newspaper and me (dressed to impress in a suit and tie).

I haven’t gotten a speeding ticket since I “graduated” from that class over 30 years ago, and I’ve driven over 500,000 miles in that time.

People at my age do need to be careful on the road, especially when medical problems arise. Two good friends have fallen asleep at the wheel during the day, one of whom I wrote about in a column last year. Another friend just agreed to no longer drive at the urging of his wife and physician. I believe my driving skills have held up, but self-delusion may be hereditary; I will admit that I’m less skilled at squeezing into tight parking spots. At the same time, I’m more alert about keeping an eye out for cops.

When my dad was at his most stubborn self in refusing to give up driving, I wrote an email to my two sons which said, essentially, “I hereby promise not to be as stubborn as my dad on the issue of driving or anything else. Please keep this email for future reference.”

Hmmm … . I wonder if they’ve kept those emails.

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns at dtreadw575@aol.com.